


Life Lived in Death Fought

by atsuyuri_sama



Series: Completed, Stand-Alone Tumblr Fics [15]
Category: Cyborg 009
Genre: 42 Specifically, Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Background Non-graphic Death, Background Relationships, Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, It really doesn't stand out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 15:52:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4441901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atsuyuri_sama/pseuds/atsuyuri_sama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A battle in the war is lost, painfully. Ten times over, a separate battle of the mind is won. (Mini character-studies ahead!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life Lived in Death Fought

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 51st anniversary of the series; inspired, as always, by tumblr posts.

It was the dawn of a new day, as the sun peeked over the horizon.

The battlefield was a mess.

Acrid smoke filled the air, clogging vision and lungs alike. Stone faces of buildings lay scattered across the furrows in the ground – shadows of once-great roads – and dragged pounds of plaster, glass, tile, and metal with it. Fire, and the embers of fires, crackled and ate hungrily in pockets of fuel, destroyed vehicles, broken houses, and ruined gas mains.

The enemy – a hoard of Cyborg Men, unimaginative in terms of Black Ghost’s usual force, but effective nonetheless – had been reduced to shredded tanks, twisted limbs, and scraps of fabric. It had been an hour since the final one fell.

It had been an hour since the enemy’s last ditch effort, and fifty-five minutes since the final, human screams. None of the ten rebels bent on stopping the horrors of Black Ghost could bring themselves to leave, in spite of the overwhelming blood and tears and terror and… death, to be blunt. It was what they were meant to stop. These lost were who they were struggling to save. This mess was what they rushed pell-mell at their own moralities to prevent.

It wasn’t the first time they’d failed. It wouldn’t be the last. It still hurt.

One by one, they turned to file solemnly onto the Dolphin, by some unheard and unvoiced signal.

-

Trudging up the ramp of the Dolphin, his knees creaked alarmingly and his back hurt; never had he more felt his age than when he grieved.

The Doctor looked up at the procession of those who had started out his projects, and easily become, instead, his children. He saw them take in the small piece of the world they’d failed, and yet watched them transformed before him. Like the ancient philosopher’s dreamed transmutation of the heavy darkness of lead to the light brightness of gold, he watched his children cast once more into the fire and come out better. The straightening of backs, the shadows of smiles, the firming of convictions and tightening of fists… In their youth he felt young, and by their strength he, too, was strengthened. This was not the end.

Isaac Gilmore breathed a deep draught of dusky air, and was uplifted by the unending love and pride in his heart.

-

Behind a mop of blue hair, eyes which were usually hidden slipped closed into inevitable sleep, a final tear rolling down a rounded cheek.

001 dreamed, with the vivid intensity that had only been provided to him a handful of times in his life. It was a gift offered by his powers, and the only one which came rarely to him and without control. He dreamed a precognition of a future that  _would be_ , not one that  _might be._  One day, in time unknown, but still one day: Black Ghost would be gone. The 00 Cyborgs would complete their mission. It might not be tomorrow. It might not be for a dozen more decades, considering how their body modifications offered them a form of forever-youth. But they would.

Ivan Whiskey dreamed of clear air, and a double rainbow stretching over the sky in full.

-

He glanced around uneasily at the various and sundry reactions of his family, hating – as always – the way he couldn’t just take the brunt of the blow for those so closely-held to his heart.

009 was new to this, comparatively, in all aspects – the youngest cyborg, the second-youngest human, the most recently born – and he bore the mark of that in the way he was so easy to sacrifice himself, believing that  _this_  would be the final moment, and just one more step would bring peace. He knew the others didn’t quite understand it, and certainly didn’t condone his dangerous tenancies, those times when they feared he might die… But he couldn’t find it in himself to believe as they did (or rather, lose the belief); there were fights that were worth it. He knew what he fought for, and he only fought because he believed whole-heartedly it could be achieved. Peace was achievable; destroying Black Ghost was possible and even probable; war would not be the legacy of the human race, love would. These were the things he believed, and he acted on them. Loss was horrid – no doubt! He ached deeply for the lives taken by this mess! But good would triumph, and one day his beloved family would understand, and rejoice.

Joe Shimamura watched the sun rise, a physical promise of ‘tomorrow come’, and continued pouring his heart and actions determinedly into a hope for a brighter future.

-

With a grunt of self-disgust, he powered up the jets in his heels abruptly, soaring up into the smoky air in a vivid streak of red-and-orange.

002 looked down on the great scar in the land, still horribly fresh… And found his eyes drawn to the sea beyond. It sparkled in the rising sun, the colors and play of shadow created by the smoldering wreck strangely beautiful. He’d seen the like before, flying over a recently-erupted volcano – then, too, things at the site had seemed hopeless, hundreds hurt and homeless and in shock. But not even a season later, he’d seen hints of brilliant new life taking advantage of the rich soil and the fertile sea. The earth was resilient, and the parallels were strong. It had survived greater disaster than Black Ghost could bring before, and it would recover now, as always.

Jet Link imagined the new life that would find shelter and food in the tumble of rocks, and the plants which would spring out of purified ground, and felt a little less as though he was beating helplessly against an immovable wall .

-

He was weary of battles, and familiar with them since birth; he was the first to turn, heart hardened, back inside the Dolphin.

008 knew the old adage: Peace follows war. But he’d  _lived_  in wartime, embroiled in battles and freedom-fights and revolts since he could follow the orders of his fellow rebels. This was just a new spin on an old scene, and he grew more jaded with humanity’s cruel capabilities by the day. Sprawled bonelessly in the cockpit, he gazed out the window. There – fuzzy, indistinct, on the edge of the horizon – green. Farmers and their fields, growing things not only for themselves, but for their community. Taking from the earth, but giving back to it in equal measure: living as people were meant to live. The wreck lay at his back, smoke drifting hazily overhead… But hope and community and life grew before him, and he remembered why he fought: Not all of humanity was as lost to war as he was, and it was his job to make sure it didn’t spill over into those innocent places.

Pyunma sighed as the tension left him, too weary to feel so jaded, as backwards as that sounded; he might be born a child of war, but he chose to be a father of peace.

-

They had used sonic bombs this time, and flash grenades; she moved carefully, temporarily blinded and deafened, but confidently moving using vibration and scent instead, stiff-backed and defiant.

003 felt the vibrations of the metal sing through her feet, and smelled the comforts aboard the Dolphin. This was home, and this was family. That wasn’t going away. A knot slowly uncurled in her chest. While this was a great loss, and one which would be added to the list they would all mourn for the rest of their lives… Family still existed. Humanity still thrived. Somewhere out there, children were playing and learning, parents were loving and teaching, and the world kept turning. They had lost the battle – badly – but the war was far from over. And if anyone knew what it meant to be stronger in adversity, it was the city-bred ballerina turned front-line warrior!

Françoise Arnoul grinned savagely at the things she couldn’t see or hear, and vowed to continue protecting humanity for as long as it continued to exist, no matter the odds.

-

It was long moments before he could tear his eyes away from the carnage, but no tears fell, beacuse a great actor never let their true emotions ruin their performance.

007 needed to be strong for his family, a calm in the storm. But that didn’t stop him from putting on a show. Perhaps it was for the faceless masses, pretending to be a regular guy. Maybe it was to a waiting audience, playing out the expected and rehearsed lines with gusto. Occasionally it was aimed at enemies, offering up the caricature of an idiot so as to catch them off-guard. Sometimes it was even to (for) his tiny family, giving them something to smile about in hard times. He wasn’t a greenhorn – right now it was the time to be a steady pillar, not a cackling clown. Laughter wasn’t the  _first_  step of recovery. But if no one reminded them how to laugh, eventually, he was worried they’d never remember. Seeing them recover, watching their lives get back on track, having a willing audience for the happiest roles he  _wanted_  to play, was best. The curtain always falls, and the roles are ever-changing… But he was most real when his audience was cheering him on.

Great Britain settled in for the long-haul, and waited with the patience of a saint for the day his family would be comfortable enough for smiles and joking again.

-

One hand sizzled warningly as he dropped to a knee, grains of dirt burning against the red-hot metal of a gun too-often fired, and he frowned to see the metal marred, a visceral reminder.

004 saw his hand, and was reminded of many things – his lost life, his lost love, his violent and embittered role now, and the  _other_  times he’d had to use his weapons in such succession that they warped and twisted under the heat and pressure. But out of the corner of his eye, the rising sun glinted off different metal, and his gaze was drawn to the chain hanging around his neck, freed at some point in the battle from the confines of his shirt. On one hand, a battered gold circlet hung – Hilda’s ring, and a symbol of who he’d been and what he’d lost. On the other, though… Recently added, a new circlet clinked against the old – a clean silver cog from Jet’s leg, a teasing ‘proposal’ by the redhead mid-battle (which had grown startlingly real since, in an unexpected fashion), and a symbol of all the new things he was gaining. Having grains melted into his gun-hand wasn’t…  _so bad,_ as long as it meant he had new good things to look for.

Albert Heinrich fingered the equal-and-opposite necklace with his cool hand, tucked it back in place beneath his uniform, and smiled grimly.

-

He looked away from the familiar crackle of flames, hating, for a moment, how he’d been changed.

006 had grown up knowing the double-sided face of fire. It fed his family good food, even as it destroyed his crops. It fertilized the ground, even as it broke down meager houses. It warmed countless bodies in winter, even as it roared a protest in fields and forests. He’d been raised to be wary of it, though not to fear it. That was why, in spite of the sorrow building in his soul over another loss, it wasn’t long before he was once again in the kitchen, flames spilling hot and precise out of his lips. Fire had done much today to break down his family; he would force it to build them a meal to bring them back up. It had harmed countless innocents; he would use it to create warmth in shelter for those who needed it. He was no master of fire – only a fool claimed that title – but he knew it as a zoo keeper knows the wildest of their charges. And it would not best him! Good things would yet come of this.

Chang Changku hummed, determined and solid, as he felt the ever-present warmth in his core.

-

He stood with eyes closed, feeling the dawn-warmed wind curl over his skin, and silently prayed that the lost souls would find their way to peace; war should not be how life was extinguished.

005 was the last one on the field, and so he was the last one listening to the phantom cries of the dead. They rang in his ears like the war-howls of his birth-tribe, and sent chills up his spine. Death was the natural exchange of life, yes, but murder and fear were not a kind way to end an already difficult and harrowing existence. Even the strongest warriors knew that. But… the cries… were getting louder? He blinked, and moved forward to sift through the muddied rubble, seeking the sounds of life so muted in this tired place. A charcoal-colored face – it was unclear whether fur was stained with soot, or naturally-dark – offered up wide, silver eyes. Tiny, obvious ribs expanded inside the grip of his gentle fingers, and a warbling  _mew_ emerged from a maw only beginning to fill with adult teeth. Immediately, the knotted, dirty, achingly  _fragile_ ball of fur and bones purred loud enough to rival the Dolphin’s engines, as he curled the kitten into the warmth of his chest and hands.

Geronimo Junior grinned wildly, a bright slash of white teeth in his face, and quickly (gingerly) approached his shared home to present the living hope sprung from a beaten place to his precious family.

-

Out of death, life comes (if you are patient and watchful enough).

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 51st, 00-cyborgs. Keep fighting the good fight. [That… felt surprisingly 2003 TOM-esque. (So, I guess:) Stay gold. Bang!]


End file.
